


Upon A Midnight Dreary

by Gwennis



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-07-28 11:04:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20062981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwennis/pseuds/Gwennis
Summary: “It is the part of men to fear and tremble, When the most mighty gods by tokens send such dreadful heralds to astonish us.”- William ShakespeareNievan Lavellan is not one to allow himself the luxury of faltering. Every decision he makes is with purpose and he takes them in stride, due to events in his past or something else, he will not reveal. However, when a certain Tevinter mage takes an interest in him, it’s all Nievan can do to not to let Dorian get a reaction out of him, at first.





	1. Nievan Lavellan

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING:** There is a brief scene of violence wherein a child dies, although it is brief, it may be a problem for some. If that is triggering to you, it is recommended you skip the chapter.

_It wasn’t your fault,_ the voice whispered, _the demon was hungry, she was just the first it saw._

“Stop,” Nievan choked, the fade swirling around him in various shades and depths, unexplainable in its beauty and perception.

_Jaws snapping, maybe if I don’t move?_

“Stop!” Nievan cried, shoving his hands over his ears and falling helplessly onto the ground, clutching himself.

_It hurts. His heartbeat as I fall asleep against his chest. Will I hear it again?_

“I cannot..” His words fell apart before they even left his mouth, resulting in a broken sob escaping his lips instead. 

_I can help you forget, forget the pain, the memory. She consumes you. The smell of lilies and the evergreens._

“_...Pain_. A shallow pool of inky depths threatening to drag you down in every instance of vulnerability. Pain was an inevitability that could drown even the strongest of minds beneath the water. That familiar flame in your chest that spread across you like a wildfire, choking you with the smoke. A clash of fire and water, a battle waged inside of you with a single action.

Nievan felt the familiar burn settle into his chest, the icy water lapping at his ankles, all in a more than figurative sense, of course. He sat silently, hands palming the fabric of his pants. The rough material felt foreign against his fingers, compared to the softness of her skin. Her bright laugh echoing across the clearing as they ran to the stream. Bloody knees from falling across the sharp pebbles. 

Everything happened all at once. First, there was Miera slipping gracefully across the open meadow to the small stream that shone like diamonds in the sun. Her auburn hair was flowing down her back, landing in complex braids and curls at the small of her back. Her eyes were alight with excitement, green hues matching the trees surrounding the three of them. Leona sat next to Nievan, watching their daughter play in the shallow water. 

“Nievan,” Leona began, reaching out to take his hand in hers. Affection from her was not foreign to him. The love they shared was not uncommon in elven clans. Paired together in order to produce another mage, a dreamer, to become First when Nievan became Keeper. The thought was not of finding “true love” or anything in relation. All were to think of what was best for the clan. However, the quick companionship that blossomed from their pairing was not unwelcome.

Nievan blinked, smiling at her, encouraging her to continue. Leona lowered her voice into a whisper, tightening her grip on Nievan’s fingers, causing him to let out a slight wince. She eyed Miera slowly, looking into Nievan’s eyes with a look of alarm. 

“You must’ve heard about the conclave,” she began, searching his face for a change in expression, “the Keeper said she had asked you to attend. She would not tell me what for no matter how hard I pushed.” Leona’s final words were like a hiss of accusation, eyes narrowing as her eyes shifted down to their hands. 

Nievan sighed, rubbing his thumb against her knuckles. “I have been sent as a spy, the Keeper has assumed that the skills I was able to pick up from your stealth training would help, should I get into a tough spot. My magic will keep me safe, Leona, that is why she is sending me, there’s no need to worry.” Leona herself was a dual wielding rogue, attempting to teach Nievan subtle ways of stealth over the years, something that both entertained her because of his slow learning curve with such subjects, and gave her a distraction from her worrisome nature. 

“_Baba!_ Come look at the fish with me! I can see at least three close to me.” Miera called to him, droplets of water falling down her equally tanned skin, inherited from her father of course. 

“One second, _ma’ blar_.” Nievan hummed, tucking a long strand of black hair behind his ear, turning back toward Leona. 

“There is always need to worry!” She huffed, using her other hand to brush her fiery red hair from her eyes. The pair was like yin and yang, dark and light. “You have a big habit of weaseling your way into every troublesome spot you can muster.” Leona mumbled, sighing as her shoulders slumped forward. 

“_Baba!_” Came the second call of the younger girl, with another, “Hold on, Miera.”

Nievan placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder, gently nudging her up to face him again, eyes locking in a tender moment as he let a soft smile slip across his lips.

“If you continue to fret over such small things,” he hummed, pressing his thumb into a slowly forming wrinkle in between her eyebrows, “this wrinkle will stay here permanently.”

This led to Leona slamming her open palms against Nievan’s bare arm, the latter laughing at the attempted assault. “_Fen'Harel ma halam!_” She hissed, laughing loudly all the same.

“_Baba! Baba!_ Please, please come see!” Miera cried, voice sounding awfully impatient, so finally, Nievan relented. 

“Coming, _ma’ blar_. Do not let the fish swim away before I get there!” He teased, winking at Leona as she rolled her eyes. He pushed himself up off the ground, brushing the dirt off his hands and walking over to the clearing where Miera had called him from.

“Hurry up!” Miera huffed, still slightly hidden from his site as he rounded a tree, “They will have swam away.” This disgruntled reply caused a small laugh to slip from Nievan’s lips.

“My old man bones can only move so fast,” he began, chuckling at his own joke, “However-“ 

He was cut off by the silence that followed his voice, and the missing spot where he had seen Miera seconds after rounding the corner. 

“Miera?” He called, eyebrows scrunched in confusion as he padded warily into the opening, “Miera? Where are you?” His voice slipped into a tone of worry, feet moving faster at their own accord now, magic flaring in his veins at the silence in response.

“Miera!” Nievan yelled, voice cracking with emotion, “MIERA!” Her name echoed off the trees, only the wind brushing through the branches and the sound of Leona’s feet slamming against the stream shore as she neared. “Where is-“ 

A scream. A loud, ear-splitting scream. 

Nievan ran toward the noise, lightning crackling at his fingertips and his blood humming with energy. His lungs burned with the quick movement, but he fought the feeling until he burst into a eerily lit part of the forest, covered by trees and jagged grass. 

There lay Miera, a large strangled mass looming above her. The being breathed heavy, ragged breaths, body a sickly violet color. The demon turned to them, blood falling from its fingertips and staining the forest floor. 

Pride. A concept Nievan was quite familiar with. Dreamers were never safe in the fade, less so from higher tiered demons. Well trained dreamers were able to easily defend themselves from possession from weaker demons, however, there was always a hidden evil that lay in the more clever of the species. Higher Pride demons were skilled in magic, something Sloth and Rage were not as well versed in, but more than anything, the bastards were intelligent. 

All of these drilled in precautions waved through Nievan’s head all in a split second, however, seeing Miera, unmoving on the ground before the demon caused him to brush aside these concerns. The dreamer flinched slightly, the very presence of such a dreaded being sending a stabbing pain through his bones. He didn’t let this deter him, however, and threw himself at the demon. 

Nievan called upon his magic, casting a barrier over Meria, slipping himself in front of her unmoving form and pushing the demon back with small sparks and a flick of his wrist. 

Pride laughed, a strand of flickering lightning cascading down from its hand as the being called upon its own magic. 

**“Dreamer,”** a chilling voice crackled, sending the strand of lightning flying at Nievan, who quickly dodged and rebuked with a flash of icy magic, **“Foolish of you to come, the little one sated me, but if you are so willing, I will claim your being for my own.”**

Nievan growled, dodging another bolt before slipping toward the demon with ice licking up to his forearms. He threw an arcing stream of jagged ice at the exposed part between its shoulder and its neck. The body of the demon was well armored, the only few vulnerable spots mostly being in its direct view. As expected, it didn’t much care for the strike and retaliated with a swipe of its claws at Nievan’s trembling form. Even after suffering through all of Leona’s training, his reflexes will still not quite up to par with hers, resulting in a blinding pain spreading across a part of his body, the adrenaline pumping in his veins made him unable to determine where the wound was.

The cry that fell from Nievan’s lips was ugly, louder than even the all too familiar cries of Leona a few feet away, scrambling to find a weapon to make herself useful.

Nievan didn’t need a weapon, not to be lethal.

The numbness that overcame Nievan’s body was not one he could put words to. Lightning and ice crackled in his fingers, dancing across his skin in a choreographed route. He raised his hands, muscled arms trembling with rage. Nievan had a fairly large build for an elf, which helped when facing an abnormally large Pride demon.

Nievan threw himself forward, twisting around the demon’s outreached arms, gripping the skin at the juncture of its hip and letting loose the magic flickering at his fingertips. Pride howled in pain, or barbaric pleasure, Nievan could not tell. The beast spun on its heels, knocking Nievan off his balance. He stumbled, managing to catch himself before its fist slammed down against him.

Nievan felt a lick of lightning lick at his ankles, hissing as the demon cast a surge of the element across the ground. Fortunately, dirt was not the best conductor and the crackling lightning quickly evaporated, allowing the elf to move in closer to the demon.

The battle ensued, ending when Nievan was able to bring the beast to its knees and quickly disperse all of his remaining mana into one powerful force spell, driving it further down until a sickening crack was heard and Pride stopped moving.

"_Ma’ blar_,” his voice quivered with emotion, but he tried to force a small smile on his face, “you’re going to be okay, I-“ _I promise. I’ll never let anything hurt you again. Please, just don’t leave me._

“_Baba-_“ The girl breathed, voice hoarse and airy, blood trickling in a gentle stream from the corner of her mouth.

“Shh,” He hushed her, hands skimming her body for the worst of her injuries and attempting to stitch the wound together with magic, so concentrated he didn’t notice the tears brewing behind his eyes.

Miera weakly grabbed his hand, gentle, even as she lay bleeding on a forest floor. “It won’t work, _baba_.” Her voice was soft and melodic, beautiful as the girl it belonged to. Nievan shook his head, dimly aware Leona was frantically entering the clearing, half of Clan Lavellan right at her heels. “It will work. I have to save you, Miera. You-“ _You matter too much. You’re everything, you don’t deserve this._

Miera just smiled sadly at her father, squeezing his fingers between hers as tears slid down her paling cheeks. “It’s okay. Don’t cry.” Her she was, comforting him with her last breaths.

Tears were openly pouring from his eyes now, ugly sobs wracking his body as he moved closer to her, brushing the hair from her eyes, a matching set to his. “I’m so sorry,” He cried softly, thumbing the soft strands of her hair, “I wasn’t fast enough, I’m so sorry. I could’ve-“

She took in a shaky breath, effectively hushing him and breathed out quietly, “It doesn’t hurt anymore, _baba.._” Her grip went slack against his hand and another pitiful noise rumbled in his throat, a mix between a scream and a sob.

Leona grabbed his arm, fingers digging into the flesh of his arm. He didn’t feel much of anything.

She was sobbing, awful sounds wracking her body as she heaved. He supposed that’s how he sounded as well. Agony. That’s what this feeling was. Agony.

Blood covered his hands, spread all across his clothes, keeping the fabric irritatingly close to his skin. Miera’s body lay limply before him, fingers spread open. _Baba_, her voice hissed in his ear, crying out for him, _Daddy, please!_

Nievan didn’t even realize he was screaming until he felt hands grabbing him, pulling him away from her, away from Miera. Sweet Miera.

“The Creators do not deserve her!” He screamed, scrambling to yank his arms from his clanmates’ grip. His heart was pounding in his chest, tears flooded his eyes, making fresh tracks down his high cheekbones. “They do not! Bring her back! _Sathan! Ver em._ Creators, _ver em_..” Nievan’s body went slack against the hands, sobs wracking his lithe body. He didn’t have anything left. Miera was everything. His hopes. His dreams. The one person amongst an endless stream of ever changing faces that he irrevocably loved. He promised he would never let anything happen to her. Promised she would be allowed to lead a better life than those before her. All now useless lies drowning in the abyss. “_Ma vhenan ma' irmor abelas_.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the small form of Leona, trembling, with her arm around another hunter of their clan. Nievan was contained by at least two people, maybe more, he didn’t have it in him to count, or truly care. This was all they could do to help him. Loss was much too common for the Dalish to truly lend a word of comfort. He suddenly felt oh so tired.

However, the thousands of thoughts floating through his head would not allow him such a simple luxury, not anymore. He’d failed her. Could he bring her back? Would she be the same? The clan had never taught necromancy, but maybe.. Too risky. A demon would trade a great deal for a dreamer, a magical trait that ran heavily in the Lavellan bloodline. They would try to stop him, however, tell him she was gone, she was with their ancestors now. Nievan didn’t know which was worse, the thought that the Creators didn’t even exist, or the perception that if they did not, then Miera was all alone. All alone without her father.

He vaguely remembered being set down and someone cleaning the dried blood from all his visible skin. His wounds burned as one of the healer apprentices, eyebrows furrowed and biting her lip, attempted to stitch the wounds littering his whole body. She couldn’t have been more than twelve. _So young_, he thought, _so young_ to see the gnarled wounds across his skin. The hum of the magic was enough to lull him into a half-hearted doze.

Blood trickled down Nievan’s eyebrow, blinding his left eye with the red hue. He hadn’t noticed the gushing of the scarlet liquid from the large claw mark down his eyebrow and cutting through his cheek. The pain was never more than the pain of losing _her…_”

Silence filled the void as the memory replayed in his mind, words escaping into the endless darkness as he licked his lips. 

“I cannot forget. Not when I have so more suffering left to do.”


	2. Dorian Pavus

He had finally done it.

Dorian sat, head swimming with a million different emotions and hands trembling, in one of the distant gardens located on the Pavus estate. Granted, sticking around right after you tell your parents you will not be marrying that barbaric bitch. Livia Herathinos was an uptight power monger and unfortunately, this was not a set of traits that Dorian could even think to find attractive, nor even likable about the woman. However, when he had informed his parents of this likely foreseen opinion, they berated him and demand he be wed to her even sooner. Of course, this was not his hoped outcome and _of course_ every attempt at persuasion to have them think otherwise deftly failed.

Perhaps the most alarming of the entire conversation, was when Dorian had finally blurted the long-kept secret, his preference for the company of men. This led to a string of arguments about how a man and a woman were truly not so different from his father, which Dorian found almost laughable and somewhat ironic, as if it was ever even suggested the Divine be a woman, there was likely a quick assassination, or perhaps twenty.

His family never understood his want for such seemingly unobtainable things. They couldn’t fathom why where most would want the soft curves of a woman’s body, Dorian wanted the hard, strong angles of a man. This “issue” was frequently swept under the rug by both of his parents, his father mostly choosing to completely ignore the situation and his mother suggesting he stop thinking so much about his own personal desires and start focusing about the _important_ things, such as how House Pavus would produce a perfect mage heir if he did not get it together soon.

As expected, when he had suddenly burst his exclamation, the silence was deafening. They already knew, of course, however, Dorian supposed it was different to actually hear _out loud_ why your son could never live up to your high expectations and standards. His father had excused himself first, eyebrows furrowed and wrinkles blossoming across his forehead that hadn’t seemed to have been there a year ago, probably because of Dorian, (the thought was enough for him to release a small chuckle). His mother, on the other hand, simply stood and stared at him, his chest rising quickly with the rapid beat of his heart. The grim expression on her face was enough to make Dorian flinch back by instinct, no one liked an upset mother. Although, nothing sent a pang through his heart quite like when she spoke, voice steely and unburdened resolve cascading down her face, “You know, I might have been surprised, perhaps even disheartened, but unfortunately, all you and your father have done is disappoint. I suppose now, Halward’s rotten bloodline will end at you, fortunate for me, I only wear this name as a thorn in my side I could quickly pull out.” Then, leaving him to gawk at her swift cutoff, turned and glided from the room with lethal precision, making him wince again.

_I suppose that’s not a new turn of phrase from her_, Dorian thought, letting a bitter chuckle fall from his lips, _She always was one to speak her mind, especially on matters concerning her deep-rooted hatred for my father. I suppose I am the upgrade, new and improved, ready to disappoint. _

Now, Dorian sat in the gardens like a fool, muttering to himself and for once, unsure of his next course of action. He knew he should simply apologize to his father for his actions, retaining what little dignity he had left, and offer to marry the Herathinos girl. This thought had him shivering with disgust, (likely laced with the pride he refused to let slip between his fingers). Apologizing was not his strong suit, neither was admitting to anyone, much less himself, that he was incorrect in any sense of the word. _Kaffas_, what he needed was a drink.

Ultimately, Dorian decided to slink back into the main house, which was eerily quiet and he found himself suspicious without the familiar noise of the servants bustling about the sprawling mansion. _Oh no_, he thought with an ever so obvious trying-not-to-be-angry face, _A staged kidnapping, and in my own house no less. What will they do this time? Lock me in my room again? Force me to read the History of the Imperium: Edition XI again? Pity, I rather despised reading about stuffy old men in ancient rags. They could have at least dressed better._

Consequently, the real panic began to set in when he ran into literally no one, not even the ever so familiar figure of the man that answered the door. A short, stocky human with one eye. Dorian had asked him as a child how he had lost his eye and his only response had been an unceremoniously dull grunt. Ah, how he missed Grunt’s familiar face right now. Maybe even his riveting conversation.

Terror encompassed him when, upon slinking past his father’s cracked open office door on the way to his bedroom, Dorian’s arm was seized from the slit and he was pulled harshly into his father’s dimly lit office. He couldn’t even pinpoint who the arm belonged to before he was shoved into a seat directly diagonal from Halward’s obnoxiously large desk, a window right beside his head. Dorian looked up, eyes a bit dazed at having been moved so fast, and he blinked to focus his gaze. He spotted at least three figures in the dimly lit room, pinpointing the one closest to the desk to be his father, Dorian’s eyes narrowed.

“Father,” he greeted, sarcasm dripping into every word he spoke, “If you seek my delightful conversation this badly, surely you could have simply asked a servant to fetch me?” He tried to keep the fearful shake out of his voice, not knowing if he succeeded. The ominous lighting and grave look on his father’s face was not one to lead him to believe whatever this meeting was leading to was pleasant. 

“Dorian,” his father began, a sigh escaping his lips as he looked down to his feet, “it didn’t have to be this way. Why did you not listen to me?” He spoke the last part softly, heightening Dorian’s already tense presence. Halward Pavus’ form edged closer to Dorian, who squirmed in the chair, but every time he made an attempt to stand up, (in obvious attempt to flee), the two other mages kept him rooted to the chair with force magic.

Dorian’s heart beat erratically in his chest as his eyes darted around the room, already searching for an escape route. “Father,” Dorian knew his voice was quivering now, he couldn’t find it in himself to contain the fear that was swallowing him wholly at this moment, “What are you doing?” 

At this, his father hovered over Dorian, looking at him with an almost resentful look in his eye, but for once the resent was not pointed toward his own flesh and blood. “You will not remember any of this,” Halward began, drawing a knife from the large desk and brandishing it dangerously close to Dorian’s neck, “all that will change about you is-“ Dorian wanted to spit in his face, he couldn’t even bring himself to say it, too distasteful, “-the part that keeps you from truly reaching your full potential.” This amendment had Dorian petrified out of his wits, as if he wasn’t already. He couldn’t bring himself to speak, only watched in horror as his father drew a slit across his own palm, then reached for Dorian’s. This had Dorian lashing out with a new animosity, one he had never known he’d harbored until now.

Dorian’s father sighed at his son, stepping back as he flailed in the chair, snarling profanities and words of hatred toward his father. “One of you,” he motioned for one of the mages who stood across the room, “Restrain his head, I don’t intend to get bitten by a wild animal today.” Dorian could hardly believe his ears, _he was the barbarian_? He, the man now restrained by a mage with force magic and one behind him, physically restraining the movement of his neck? Not the man who stood before him, a hypocrite in his quest for the perfect child. _He taught me to hate blood magic_, Dorian thought, a sick taste in his mouth, _and yet this is his first and final solution._

Dorian’s eyes scanned the whole room, noting the window a few feet from him. _Maybe_, he thought, eyes sweeping from the window to his father’s dark, empty eyes, _If I can reach the window._

Halward Pavus met Dorian’s gaze, grey eyes locking with dark brown. For all the years of his youth Dorian spent pining to be more like his father, he was glad this simple distinction between the two was visible. He didn’t want to be anything like the stranger standing in front of him. Dorian’s mouth felt dry as he parted his lips, emotion choking in his words as he spoke, “You son of a _bitch_.” His words sputtered out ungracefully, something that did not usually correlate with Dorian’s usual elegance and grace.

As his father neared him again, knife clutched tightly in his fist, Dorian bit down on the hand of the man holding his head against the chair. The man choked back a cry, instinctively pulling his hands out of Dorian’s hold, allowing him to throw a bolt of lightning at the other distracted force mage. He bolted upright out of the chair, hesitating when he came face to face with his father again. It was like he was a child again, a scared little boy way too worried about pleasing his father. The Altus quickly straightened his posture and shoved the magister with a brush of electricity. Surprisingly, his father did not give chase, did not put up any kind of a fight. A light of hope burned bright in Dorian’s chest. _Perhaps he did not want to do this, perhaps-_ Dorian’s breath hitched, _-but he had, willingly_. Dorian turned from the three stunned mages and slipped out the window, landing harshly on the ground. He winced, slipping down a whole story was probably not the best course of action, but what other choice did he have? 

His ankle ached as he moved quickly down the crowded streets. No one so much as batted an eye at him, but he knew better, everyone in this city was always watching, regardless of if it was their business or not. Eventually, word of his abrupt departure would reach his father and, although he wouldn’t be surprised, his father would probably come after him, or maybe he wouldn’t. 

Dorian didn’t know which thought hurt worst.

He stopped briefly to purchase supplies with the small amount of gold he had on him, food, new robes, and unfortunately, a new staff since he’d left his at the Pavus mansion in his slight rush to escape. _The least the old bastard could have done was allow me to collect my things before he tried to mutilate me with blood magic._

Pain still bit at his ankle, but stopping at a healer would give too much pause to his escape. Unfortunately, Dorian did not know even once of healing magic. Among noble families in Tevinter, the skill was seen as unnecessary, more so _unimpressive_ than anything else. _Makes sense_, the Altus thought in bitter regret, _why would a noble family of the Magisterium ever need to know anything about healing? There was always a lesser to do such things for them, practically no one in the Imperium even had a single scar. Perfect paper dolls. Littered with small sprinkles of corruption here and there._ The thought left a stale taste in Dorian’s mouth the more he thought about it.

He remembered being a small boy in the Circle, getting into yet another fight with yet another noble’s prick of a son. The healers in the Circle became quite familiar with his presence, going so far as expecting him on an almost weekly basis. Dorian found himself lying about injuries, feeling as though he should bear the marks of his encounters, (of course not on his dazzling face.) Unlike the rest of his peers, Dorian didn’t feel the need to feign perfection more than he had to. He put on a farce for everyone he talked to, but when he looked at himself, he didn’t want to see all of that, if only for a minute. Quite a sad and stuffy tale for the son of a magister, and he truly doubted anyone would even bat an eye at the misfortune of an Altus mage. His life was already far more well-off than even he gave himself credit for. So why was there always this impending feeling of being incomplete looming over him?

Dorian shook his head, he didn’t have the time nor the energy to dwell on such thoughts. Right now, he was more than a little worried about securing passage out of Minrathous, considering most vessels sporting passengers would have already departed by now. _Kaffas_, he didn’t even know where he should go. 

Quiet footfalls fell against the stone as he walked across the sidewalk by the ports, most of them lacking any sort of hope to escape this bloody island. Eventually, Dorian came across a long line of people, mostly human with a few brandishing obedient elves at their sides, waiting in front of a large ship, a small, scraggly man standing at the front, facing the crowd. He was in the midst of telling them the ship was full, that no one, slave or not, could be taken aboard the ship at this time. Of course, that sentiment was not taken well with all of the lower class members of the Imperium, as they cried out profanities in both Tevene and the common tongue, enough to make Dorian’s mother scowl, if she was there to bear witness to the slurs.

Dorian shoved his way to the front, and with flash of his birthright, he was sent on to the ship, a string of angry soporati screaming after him. Unfortunately, as he peeked out of a small porthole in the side of the ship after the passengers had been sent below decks, he found himself envious of the small mob still screaming at the ship as it departed. He truly hated the sea. He continued to think this for the week long voyage as he spent every day and night in a constant state of sick, one of which he would not like to mention to anyone in too detailed a fashion. Only that, after the ship docked, he felt an inherant pull to drop to his knees and kiss the streets of Val Royeaux, if he did such a thing or not, he would take to his grave.


	3. Interlude: Leona & Nievan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING:**  
Brief mentions/thoughts of suicide.

**LEONA**

They couldn’t look at each other. Not for the first week, nor the passing month. Leona Lavellan slipped through the days in a haze, living and breathing but not truly there. She could not remember how many days had past, or weeks for that matter. The funeral had been silent, save for the few words spoken by the young girl’s friends during the procession.

“Where is Miera?” A flinch from Leona at the mention of her name.

“Why is everyone sad, did she run away?”

“Should we be looking for her?”

The elven women would have let out a bitter laugh had she not been too far in her thoughts to do so. _Yes_, she thought, eyes blinking slowly, _why aren’t we looking for her? She cannot simply be gone. My sweet girl, my darling-_

Leona could not bring herself to even think the girl’s name.

She was led to and fro by another of the clan, whispering soft words of compassion into her ear as they handed her the afternoons meals, pulled up the blankets for her when she fell into a dreamless sleep.

The mother’s heart ached with a burn that could not be extinguished. Even as her lungs burned with unshed tears, she could not bring herself to care. Leona was a force to be reckoned with, but this was one battle she felt as if she would never reign victorious. 

Leona visited her tree everyday, the small evergreen sapling the clan had planted over her grave. As the days drew on, the small blades of grass poking through the newly dug up earth softened the tightness in her heart, if only a little. Just a little.

A husk of what once was. Vibrant spirit left to rot under the grief. Did she blame him? She did. Blaming him was easier than blaming herself, regardless of what she knew to be true. At least, that’s what she told herself as she stood above his sleeping form with a knife clutched in her hand.

**NIEVAN**

His dreams had never been quiet. _A burden of duty_, the keeper had told him, the duty of a dreamer to his clan. Now, the dreams were loud, too loud. Voices echoed as he walked through the fade, eyes downcast and arms hanging limply at his sides, whispering atrocities he had already resigned himself to believe

_She would be alive if it weren’t for you._

_You should have watched her closer._

_The clan blames you, her mother blames you, the world will always blame you._

Consequently, Nievan blamed himself.

He dug his fingernails harshly into his skin, slamming his eyes shut and biting his lip so hard it bled. As if he didn’t know. As if he could not comprehend what a lethal failure he was to his own flesh and blood.

_Daddy!_  
Nievan froze, eyes snapping open but pinpointing the ground. No, he thought, bringing his hands to cover his ears, _Please, no._

Desire plagued his dreams, digging its claws into him more and more each time he saw her. Of course it had to be her, of everything he had every craved throughout his life, the pain he felt without her was crippling. 

His eyes moved up against his better judgement, locking on the small form of his daughter not even three strides away. Their eyes caught one another, emerald connecting with emerald, and he felt a piece of himself break away every second he looked.

She looked like she had before..everything. Full of life and light, radiating her infectious smile that was missing a tooth in the front. A lily was tucked behind her ear, pale petals contrast to her darker skin, porcelain against pearl. He held out a hand, reaching for the girl, fingers trembling as he stared at her, unblinking for fear she would disappear as soon as he allowed his eyes to close. This dream had plagued him for the month since her death. Every time he had screamed at the demon to leave him be, unleashed hellish amounts of magic upon the beast until it finally dissipated. Now, he could not bring himself to do so. Now, he could not bear a world without her in it any longer. So, he drew closer, fingers close enough to curl around her wrist when he felt a warmth against his back.

“Please,” he croaked, not bothering to look back, for he knew what being stood behind him with a sad stare, “I cannot bear it any longer, I do not wish to fight it.”

_Wronged in life, longed for death. Creators, what have I done?_

The familiar voice washed over him, making him flinch back from Desire, looking at the form it had taken with such sorrow. Desire looked back at him, hiding the irritation of Compassion well, but not well enough. _Daddy please_, it said in her voice, _I missed you._

_Loved and lost. It is not her._

Nievan took a step back from the demon, slowly moving his hands over his ears at the two voices began to overlap, growing in volume and making him bite harshly on the inside of his cheek.

_Red behind my eyelids-_

_Daddy, why are you leaving?_

_-the color of her hair in the sun_

_Please don’t leave me, I’m scared!Falling, falling, a burst of flame-_

_It’s going to get me, help, please!_

_-smoke in my lungs, choking me_

_DADDY!_

** _Wake up._ **

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

Nievan’s eyes snapped open, a choking noise falling for his lips as he threw himself up in the small bedroll, eyes unfocused and heart pounding. “No..” He sobbed, not noticing the woman standing a few feet from him, eyes locked on him and dagger raised. His hands wove their way into his hair, clutching at the roots with a hard grip that was enough to make tears prick in his eyes. His watery gaze caught the glint of the metal in the moonlight, turning his head to lock with Leona’s hardened eyes. They caught, emotional against emotionless, staring at one another for what felt like hours.

Nievan continued to rock gently against his blankets, tilting his chin up to give her a better view of his neck. He wasn’t going to stop her if she chose to enact her grief upon him. If he was less of a coward, he might have even done it himself. He could imagine the relief of such a burden being lifted off his shoulders.

She didn’t move for several minutes, body still tensed and poised in that familiar hunter position he used to find so endearing. He used to be able to read Leona with taciturn and ease, but now, the woman standing in front of him was but a stranger, melancholic and broken. His thoughts were ill-timed, but he could not stop them from rooting in his brain.  
Their unification had been one of homage and obedience to the clan, producing another mage to become first when Nievan had taken the Keeper’s place. The dreamer blood that ran through his veins was the real boon. The Dalish were always one to find a way to preserve their culture, including the extinct gene of the elven dreamers. Once, all elven mages were all such sages, placed high in society for their monumental propensity, but no longer. The union of he and she had never been one of preference. If not for the magic brandished in her bloodline, neither would have even noted the other. Nievan thought Leona was unequivocally beautiful, both in intellect and in more mundane ways. He loved her, but his desire for her was only skin deep, which made this state of affairs all the more thorny.

“I know,” Nievan rasped, tears now rolling tranquilly down his cheeks, cascading into a minuscule puddle on his hand, “I miss her too.” Leona’s resolve fissured slightly, allowing him the slightest glimpse into her seemingly unrequited pain. Her hands quivered, eyes red rimmed and right arm dropping with the knife in hand. She was just as aggrieved as he, only neither of them were perceptive enough in their affliction to realize. Leona ultimately wobbled on her feet, tears blinding her vision as she fell to pieces in front of Nievan. She crumbled down to her knees, not disrupting their eye contact as she keened. He felt himself shifting toward her, allowing her petite and feeble form tumble into his arms, enveloping her body with his own. He spoke sotto words in her ear, soft murmurs steading the tension that radiated between them. She did not speak in turn, but he understood, his already wavering disposition cracking with each moment she continued to sob in his arms. Nievan’s fingers carded through her hair, pulling her into his lap like a small child, serene rambling falling from his lips to form sentences he only hoped were somewhat comforting.

He cradled her like this for hours. He never moved, or complained about the deep set crick in his neck or the throbbing in his lower back. He held her as if she was the only real thing anymore, as if she were the only piece of life he had left. Eventually, both were unable to tell who’s tears were who’s, until the sunrise broke across the meadow and a new day began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This short (emphasis on short, oops) interlude is mostly so I can wrap up all the sad backstory and move onto happier topics, like Corypheshit trying to blow up Nievan's hand.

**Author's Note:**

> **ROUGH** translations;  
“Baba” - Dad  
“Ma’ blar” - My flower  
“Sathan” - Please  
“Ver em” - Take me  
“Fen'Harel ma halam” - Dread Wolf ends you  
“Ma vhenan ma’ irmor abelas” - My heart, My greatest sorrow


End file.
